dear-muse
Original: dear-muse on Saturday Morning Breakfast Cereal
Transcript
Panel 1:
Man with flame-like hair (asking a large cloud-like entity made of swirling golden gas): Dear Muse, will I write anything great and lasting?
Panel 2:
Man: Hard to say. What year is it?
Panel 3:
Muse (the swirling golden cloud): Here's how literature works. People build up a set of agreed-upon moral and aesthetic values until they become a sort of monocultural gestalt.
Panel 4:
Muse: Then, when it's harvest time, a bunch of young people come and cut it down. This is when great classics get written.
Panel 5:
Muse: If you harvest too early, you're a reactionary -- the seeds you collected are bitter and odd. If you harvest too late, you'll get squishy multiculti slop enjoyed by people with palates only for the familiar.
Panel 6:
Man: How do I know what time it is?
Panel 7:
Muse: Well, have you had any grand wars that produce a sense of ethical vacuum? A vertigo of the soul? A magical generation convinced they hold the first to know truth and suffering and wandering in lost places? That sort of deal?
Panel 8:
Man: Not really. No.
Panel 9:
Muse: Sounds like it's time to sow. Go find some young people who fear and crush them under the burden of your value structure, thus generations hence, the arts will flourish!
Panel 10:
Man: I... ah, I see.
Panel 11:
Muse: The other thing is -- I've seen your writing and it's trash.
Panel 12:
Man: I knew it!
Votey:
Muse: Like, it's embarrassing. I'm embarrassed.
(The man walks away dejected as the Muse cloud floats off.)
Muse: Please. Stop.
Man with flame-like hair (asking a large cloud-like entity made of swirling golden gas): Dear Muse, will I write anything great and lasting?
Panel 2:
Man: Hard to say. What year is it?
Panel 3:
Muse (the swirling golden cloud): Here's how literature works. People build up a set of agreed-upon moral and aesthetic values until they become a sort of monocultural gestalt.
Panel 4:
Muse: Then, when it's harvest time, a bunch of young people come and cut it down. This is when great classics get written.
Panel 5:
Muse: If you harvest too early, you're a reactionary -- the seeds you collected are bitter and odd. If you harvest too late, you'll get squishy multiculti slop enjoyed by people with palates only for the familiar.
Panel 6:
Man: How do I know what time it is?
Panel 7:
Muse: Well, have you had any grand wars that produce a sense of ethical vacuum? A vertigo of the soul? A magical generation convinced they hold the first to know truth and suffering and wandering in lost places? That sort of deal?
Panel 8:
Man: Not really. No.
Panel 9:
Muse: Sounds like it's time to sow. Go find some young people who fear and crush them under the burden of your value structure, thus generations hence, the arts will flourish!
Panel 10:
Man: I... ah, I see.
Panel 11:
Muse: The other thing is -- I've seen your writing and it's trash.
Panel 12:
Man: I knew it!
Votey:
Muse: Like, it's embarrassing. I'm embarrassed.
(The man walks away dejected as the Muse cloud floats off.)
Muse: Please. Stop.
Alt text
A twelve-panel SMBC comic. A young man with spiky flame-like hair speaks with a large swirling golden cloud-creature, his Muse. He asks if he'll ever write anything great and lasting. The Muse explains literary history as an agricultural cycle: a culture builds up shared moral and aesthetic values into a 'monocultural gestalt,' then young people 'harvest' it by cutting it down, which is when great classics get written. Harvest too early and you're a bitter reactionary; too late and you get 'squishy multiculti slop.' The man asks how to know the right time. The Muse asks whether there have been any grand wars producing an ethical vacuum and a 'magical generation' convinced they're the first to know suffering. The man says no, not really. The Muse advises him to go find young people who fear and crush them under his value structure so the arts will flourish for future generations. The man says 'I... ah, I see.' The Muse then adds bluntly that it has seen his writing and it's trash, and the man cries 'I knew it!' Votey: The Muse keeps piling on, saying 'Like, it's embarrassing. I'm embarrassed,' as the dejected man trudges away and the cloud floats off; the man weakly pleads 'Please. Stop.'
Transcribed by Claude Opus 4.8.